Careening toward an imaginary momentary end,
and perhaps that’s why we measure time
so we can create distance between and away
from the fractures of life, the disappointments
of what once seemed so promising, what glistened
but has been buried in the sediment of time.
We imagine clarity is gained through the experience
of crossing imaginary boundaries, of the lines we draw
in the dust, even as it settles, even as it falls around
the fingertip which delineates the moment we wish
to separate from the moment we find ourselves still
entertaining, still attempting to shape.
We fill these spaces, drawn of the remaining debris
as time continues its wind swept passage, with hope;
and it is why the finger’s tip insists on delineation
and a type of order which simplifies only, the grasping
to the continued belief that there is magic in what comes
after imaginary endings which lead to similar beginnings.